Call Him Loki
by I'vebeenLOKI'Dyetagain
Summary: Loki used to have an identity crisis. But there will be a day when he but utters, "Say my name," and they will scream it at him. (Inspired by Tom's performance as Loki at Comic Con.)


**Just a small one-shot I wrote today after watching Loki's speech at Comic Con on youtube repeatedly, and listening to a few interviews with Tom Hiddleston about Loki's character, especially one called 'Thor: The Dark World - Tom Hiddleston Interview - Comic-Con 2013' **

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When the door scraped shut, the torches on the walls gave a flicker of protest, silent feet padding down the stone hall; closer, closer to the emanating cold.

Eerily the scraping of the door echoed, wandering over his face and hands like the color blue, as he lifted the casket up, and his eyes burned at the realization, his silent gasp as inaudible as the doors' dead moans. And when they scraped open again, he didn't jump, didn't flinch, didn't move, his veins smoking purple against the blue.

Filled his heart with lies, and filled his heart with truths.

When he turned, slowly, carefully, dangerously, his heels against the floor then rolling onto the balls of his feet, one foot in front of the other. He stalked with cat-like grace, pausing, listening, watching, for any sign of hate.

And he remembered that exact moment when he felt his heart crack, as he looked out from the tower at the New York skyline, watching as the city burned away.

Explosions, fire. Nothing not quietly—as lost and hopeless as the life he'd thought he knew.

And when the bombs fell, the clouds and flames mushroomed up into the blue, smoking nearly purple, his goal oscillating before his eyes till he didn't know what he wanted and what he didn't.

Yet he pontificated for his lost cause because it didn't matter what he said, just the effect it had, because yet it was true in a way that freedom was life's great lie.

Because even as the leviathan wriggled through the portal, they were being used and only he knew; like he had been used for all those centuries, and he never knew.

He never knew.

And still he doesn't know what he wants.

He tries to remember what it is exactly he wanted, in his mad scramble for power, for identity.

"_What am I?" _he'd asked once. And in the darkness of the void he'd found his answer.

He'd found his answer as he fell, farther, farther, his mind howling as it ravened and wolfed down the night; till he collided with stars, and every lie that had once coated his skin was stripped away in pale ribbons like woodsmoke spiraling off gold-tongued flames.

Something less, something more and supernovas soared till his skin—his flesh—was on fire and it scorched and trembled and flickered and burned till the walls crumbled to nothing but dust and magma, that dripped along the ground like molasses.

It permeated through his mind until he couldn't tell what was him and what was the world—conscience—Yggdrasil; his power of will, no, stretching up infinitely, branches and leaves lining everything, and any attempt to understand would only result in abbreviating it.

Such colossal immensity of nothing and everything at once, till he drowned in the darkness without a trace.

The trunk sometimes diaphanous, sometimes opaque, and when he slipped out from between the folds of space his mind had been seized as if grown over with wisteria of blue.

He continued to fall farther, till when he landed he found himself shivering in Niflheim and watching the dragon Nidhogg chew and chomp and bite and gnaw away at the roots of everything and of nothing.

Until the world ends, it hasn't ended.

And so he crowns himself with horns of gold, arms open, welcoming.

Is he monster, or is he majesty?

He will be the one to bring the end.

And he knows. Everything he'd thought he was, everything they'd thought he was, every appellation—gone.

He's a shadow no longer. (What is a shadow when consumed by darkness?)

He's nothing.

Nothing but chaos.

Roiling and boiling within him, when all his skin, muscle, sinew and bones are peeled away, he is still there in the obdurate disasters that crumble regimes into dust beneath the heel of his black boots, setting them aflame with a vermilion vengeance that races through the streets like starved wolves, devouring everything that stands in their way and leaving naught but ash and metal skeletons that stand black against the eternally storming sky; for there will always be Thor, always Thor against him.

And he will not come crawling back to the thunderer as a recourse like some lost and maudlin child, mewling from the nightmares that shudder through his frame like a disease.

No, he will unleash those nightmares upon the world.

Creation and destruction dance hand in hand, their metal soles clicking across the floor of the universe, metal souls twirling in some cruel parody of those ballroom dances he'd always been forced to attend as a prince, where he would linger in the corners, hardly daring to breath for fear someone would see and notice how he didn't belong—but now he does.

Maybe his spidery fingers and wiles had always been apt to cause a melee where before there'd been stiff, orderly and predictable derisive laughter, till he tied their laces together and watched them trip, mouths parted to reveal that they had never expected him to be who he was.

Perhaps he hadn't either.

But he knew who they were, his eyes penetrated deep into their souls, in staring contests that were one of the only things he'd ever won, as they tried and failed to look away as he read through every thought that raced across their minds like clouds in their polluted blue and brown skies.

A smirk would quirk at the corners of his thin lips, his face half marred by shadows, vibrant green eyes catching each flicker of firelight and scattering it amongst the darkness.

The gold helmet framed his face: all sharp daunting angles, the horns curving gracefully back and all but disappearing into the gloom.

He would always watch with his back pressed up against the wall, listening to each word that transpired and filing it away for use later, though even then he still knew not where he stood, the ground always seeming so fragile beneath his feet, as if at any moment it would cease playing his friend, pry off his fingers and let him fall.

And fall he did.

But now he knows where he stands; and he knows there will be a day when he stands before the humans, thousands up on thousands of them huddling together in the dark like beasts, and he'll hear their screams surround him like a cloak of green draping from his shoulders, and he'll hold a slender finger to his lips and drag them down into silence.

He will be a monster, a king, a daemon; but burdened with glorious purpose.

(Mischief is his forte, his epithet, his raison d'etre.)

And they will fall on their knees before him.

He'll smile, then, in unadulterated exhilaration. It will pull his lips apart with a menace, to reveal white teeth, long sharpened by his silver tongue, shadows spun like gossamers in the creases of his cheeks and hollows of his deep-set eyes.

There will be a day when he but utters "Say my name."

And they will know. Every single one of them will _know_ who he is, and they will scream it at him.

Not Odinson.

Not Laufeyson.

Not Silvertongue, Trickster, or God of Evil.

_Loki._

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**Thank you for reading! :3 Please leave a review and let me know what you think?**


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